


Foreign

by micehell



Series: ROTJ retelling [1]
Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: M/M, implied non-con of a sort, set before torture scene in ESB
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-06
Updated: 2007-04-06
Packaged: 2017-11-12 03:57:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/micehell/pseuds/micehell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This wasn't him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Foreign

**Author's Note:**

> Originally this story stood alone. Then someone made a comment about one element of it, and it spawned a series of a sort, a kind of retelling of ROTJ. Each piece of the quasi-series stands alone, though, so you don't have to read the others to get a complete story... though, yeah, as it goes along you'd be more and more confused if you hadn't read the others first, and the fact that the series isn't finished yet would probably be more irritating, too. ;)

They'd separated him from the others hours ago, though it felt like days, and Han was starting to think they were going to leave him in this stupid cell until he went crazy. He prowled from one wall to the other, then did the other two, the tiny space taking far too little time to traverse, and Han slapped one wall, another, almost ready to drive his fist into it, wishing they just get on with whatever they were going to do. Hells, he was almost getting reminiscent about the beating they'd given him, because at least that had broken up the monotony.

He scanned the room, looking once again for a way out, even knowing he wouldn't find one. He felt like he could climb the walls, smooth as they were, no breaks for anything but the door, heavily sealed, and the air vents, too small for anything but a rat to get through. Han would have welcomed the rat by that time, because at least it would have been some kind of company, but all he got was too-cold air. He shivered, wrapping his arms around himself, but it didn't touch the chill that had settled into the core of him. Even his relentless pacing hadn't made a dent in that.

He thought about trying another trick on the guards, but he'd already faked illness, and all he'd got for it was a couple of bruises and a quick grope by one of the troopers. Those helmets were expressionless, but Han had always had an almost sixth sense about people, and he'd known the bastard had been smirking at him behind his shield. Han had given him his own _you wish_ smirk, but he'd been careful not to push too far, just hoping that things wouldn't get out of hand. They'd left, the one trooper giving him one last glance before the door sealed, and then he'd been alone again, and though he'd been happy to see them go, he could have almost missed them. He hated being alone.

His reactions were all out of proportion here, and he knew it, and he couldn't figure out why. He felt as wired as he had that one time someone had slipped him Spice, and he'd hated how out of control he'd felt, hated it now, but they hadn't given him anything, not even any water, and he didn't think they'd bother to pump it in with the air. Why bother when it wasn't like he could stop them anyway? It was just that this wasn't like him. Sure, he was impatient, but not to this level, and he could only guess it was the worry that was driving it.

He wasn't used to having to worry about anything but Chewie and himself. And while Chewie always drove Han crazy with his stupid displays of bravery, it was Leia that was putting the heavier lump in his stomach right now. He knew she was tough, he had plenty of memories to back that up, but he also knew how important she was to the Rebellion, and how much information she had that the Empire would love to know.

Han had a lot of that same information, of course, but no one had asked him a thing yet. Of course, he wasn't a princess -- well, not since that one time on Barkel 6, anyway -- and he wasn't the leader of anything except for himself and one slightly mangy partner, so he could see why they might look to her first. He just hoped that they wouldn't hurt her too badly. And that the troopers around her were keeping their hands to themselves. Hells, that thought was just another itch that had him searching for escape, though at this point he was even starting to miss C3PO, so it wasn't like it took much.

Another circuit of the cell, and he found himself rubbing his dick through his pants, though he couldn't remember deciding to do it. He looked down at his hand as if it had betrayed him, and in a way it had, because while it wasn’t the first time he'd whiled away his boredom with a jerk-off session, he wasn't anything like aroused right now. The worry hanging over him, his own restlessness, weren't exactly a recipe for love, even the self-given kind, but he had to consciously still his hand. _This fucking situation just gets stranger and stranger_.

It worried him for a moment, but was driven away by the memory of how nice it had felt, the touch of his hand warm and comforting, even through the fabric of his trousers, and he was bored, and nervous, and it would take the edge off, wouldn't it. He was questioning that thought even as his hand was moving again, questioning all of this. What if the guards came back? What if he was being monitored? He determinedly took his hand away again, trying to think of something else.

But he was restless and itchy, and there wasn't anything else, nothing he could think of right now, anyway, and he was cupping his balls through his pants, squeezing them up against his hardening dick, and when the fuck had that happened? He hadn't meant to do this, right? He hadn't wanted to, and yet it felt so good, dexterity honed by years of coaxing ships into giving him that much more, into coaxing pleasure from himself when the long nights between planets, the long years between partners he could trust, made him turn to the only hand he could count on. Well, he could count on Chewie, but best friend aside, he tended to forget that humans just weren't built the same way, and after that one emergency stop on Ord Mantell, they'd both decided it wasn't worth it.

Han groaned as the fingers of one hand unconsciously slipped under his waistband, the tips rubbing lightly over the lengthening dick, the other hand pressed at the seam of his crotch, the press against his balls, against his ass, another layer of pleasure. It was all good.

And it was all bad. He shook his head in confusion. Since when had he thought with his dick instead of his sense… okay, _sometimes_ he tended a little that way, but not in this time and place, not in these circumstances. If the trooper came back and caught him like this, excited after what he'd done to Han, as if there were a cause and effect, Han might as well bend over willingly for all the good it would do him to say no. This was just plain asking for it.

Trying to shake off his odd mood, he jogged, he shadowboxed, he did fucking sit-ups, he was so bored, so desperate to release the nervous energy humming through him. He hated this, hated the fact that he was touching himself again, his pants open, dick out, waving for all the world to see, and they very well might if they were visually monitoring his cell, but even that thought didn't make him stop as he squeezed his dick hard, gripping the head so hard it burned, he burned, and his balls were drawing up tight as he started jerking himself even harder, again and again, like a punishment for being so fucking stupid, like a fucking joy as he came and came. His knees gave way, dropping him to the floor, one hand flailing out to keep his face from hitting, while the other hand was still drawing the last of his orgasm out of him.

He could only hold there, head down, knees stinging from their meeting with the hard floor, his breath short and harsh. The arm holding him up was trembling wildly in release and cold and fear. This wasn't him, this wasn't him, no matter how good it felt.

Han could feel it then, his own senses coming back from where they had been pushed down, restrained; a foreign touch, like a cold hand down his back, like a stranger's hand on his dick. That same sense that let him feel the trooper's smirk, that let him know when his friend's were in danger, that had warned him of a thousand traps and ambushes over his life, and kept him alive when it was long odds against it, was singing to him now, telling him who was coming even before Vader walked into the room, the troopers at his back.

But Vader just stood there studying him, motionless, emotionless, while the troopers pulled him up, set his pants back in place, a careless wave of his hand leading to Han being dragged down the hall, strapped to a table canted above an array of crystals that just gave him another bad feeling. He stared at them, knowing what was coming, knowing what had come before, and, Hells, wasn't that just the fucking literal truth, and he felt sick to his stomach, felt colder than Hoth had ever been. Vader, looming beside him, too close, too far inside him, was just making it worse, and he couldn't pull his usual mask on, the one that said nothing could touch him, not now when something already had.

He was almost thankful when the crystal array started humming, the tips growing red as he was lowered towards them, and he could scream and scream without anyone knowing why.

/story


End file.
